The Mark
by wakingsparrow
Summary: After a hunt goes bad and drives Dean and Sam apart, Dean begins to face the fact that things aren't always as they seem. And if only he would have figured that out sooner, he wouldn't have just virtually sentenced two boys to their death. *Adult language
1. Intro

**Introduction **to** The Mark**

**Author:** Wakingsparrow

**Story Info:** Set sometime after Sam is no longer soulless. It's probably going to be more AU in that I'll be ignoring events that played out in the show...like the entirety of season 7 as well as the 'mother of all' arch. Some things may not line up, so please bare with me. I'm going to try to keep this more a classic 'saving people, hunting things'.

Feedback is loved...NAY, venerated! It's my first story! Woot!

* * *

.

Deep breath…steady… focus…exhale.

.

Any other day he wouldn't have needed to reiterate the phrase in his head, one he had heard from age 12. It was one his subconscious had gotten so used to integrating into his movements every time shit hit the fan. One person's death, maybe a few…saved. It wouldn't even have to be the present life. Maybe it would be someone's red existence soaking into the ground a year from now. It all came down to this.

.

Deep breath…steady…focus…exhale.

.

Dean's hands quivered slightly, the dot between two crests disappearing out of sight for just a moment. He shouldn't even be thinking about it, it should be that run of the mill. _Life shouldn't be so royally screwed right now. Apocalypse diverted, that was supposed to be it. I should be in hell. The world's not over yet, it still keeps kicking somehow. _Dean mulled these thoughts unspoken, not that anyone would be around to hear him aside the stacked skeletons of cars slowly being engulfed in summer-tanned weeds. "_Damn it_" The man spat to the side and shifted his feet in the dust, squared his shoulders and collected a gulp of air for the second time. He slightly lifted his arms back up. Yet another bead of sweat soaked into the back of his tee shirt as he narrowed his eyes. The peripheral world around him blurred and the crests again cradled the dot.

.

Steady…focus…

.

Suddenly with a squeeze the cool metal he grasped kicked to life, furiously bucking out a shell of the cargo it had held but a blink of an eye before. It cackled out a shout of energy that echoed the broken silence into the hulls of the beached vehicles around him. An earthy scent of gun power clung to his fingers before the hot and scarce breeze could wick it away.

Dean could have sworn the amber bottle that teetered on the hood of a practically prehistoric truck some distance away inanimately mocked him, unscathed. _You drank the life out of me._ It seemed to gnash out wordlessly, _I'm not going down that easy. _The angry sound dulled away slowly as the arrogant container settled again only millimeters from its previous resting place.

He knew it was all in his head, but what the target haunted him with was something he would have said only a few months ago. Honestly lately, it sounded like something he would say now. How could things possibly be about as messed up as they were before? How could this tangled disaster of shit they had tried to set straight come back to bite…Dean cut himself short before he played all of it over in his mind for the millionth time.

This. This was supposed to stop the thinking. This was supposed be enjoyable and come to him as naturally as twisting off the cap of what he was aiming at. His hand ran through his damp hair as he stretched his shoulder blades and whipped his head up with a frustrated grunt. It had been an unforgivingly hot summer. Crops were suffering, wildfires sprang up in the midst of droughts eating homes and jobs and people. It wasn't something you could shoot or salt and burn. Terrible innocent death was natural, as hard as it was for a hunter to stand back and watch. Was it something they had started? Was there something causing it he could have ended…could still end if he could just figure of the signs?

He clutched a beer from a small cooler behind him and took a long swallow. It would matter if he could stop it, it was probably just cause a tsunami to knock off California or something. If there was one thing Dean was sure of, it was that his actions hurt people one way or another. It had been proven a hundred times over.

How could he compete with the long road of the deceased and heartbroken that stretched as far behind him as a straight Kansas road? Maybe the odds of him setting things right verses regular people being hurt weighed out. Maybe it didn't. Things had gotten a little harder to call these last few months, if little means a shitload. Grey areas were for people who didn't know the difference between right and wrong, especially in his line of work. Maybe there was no hard chromatic gradation in this anymore.

The eldest Winchester sighed heavily and shook past situations from his mind as he plunged the beer back into the nearly melted ice. Target practice was clearly not helping with the whole 'not thinking' bit. Nevertheless, he gathered himself back into position with his arms extended, elbows slightly bend, directing the gun to aim at the bottle. _Do what you're good at._ The left hand gradually encircled the right with thumbs crossing, bracing for the kick back. _Stop thinking about it so much_. He blinked against the sizzling warmth and concentrated on the weighted barrel's aim ahead.

.

Deep breath…steady…focus…exhale.

.

The weapon startled again sending out a thunder-like crack over the car lot. The casing landed with a harmless tink a foot away accompanied with a zing of bullet against metal.

That bastard bottle didn't even bother to wobble this time.

"_Fuck_." Dean barked the word out while kicking up dirt almost as vehemently as the semi-automatic this time, not caring if the labyrinth of cars spoke it back to him in a resounding and evaporating 'fuhck-fuhh-kkk-fhhh-kkkkk-c-c-k-kk'

Okay, yeah. The world wasn't ending, but that didn't mean it wasn't still going to the dogs. What ever reprieve Dean thought he would get after popping the lock to the pit and throwing the bad guys embodied as his brothers in, it sure as hell (deprecatingly full of puns) wasn't this. The image of losing the person he was closest in the world to would always be the waking horror of his dreams for the rest of his life. But Sammy was out. All in one piece at this point. After everything. All there. Right? How the hell would he know, they hadn't spoken in weeks.

_Don't want to go there_. Dean clenched his fist. _No Point_. He had made the judgment to keep the hunters life after knowing he could never go to something he never had. After a few weeks of living out of the Impala and slamming back a fifth in silence inside shoddy motels, he'd ended up at Bobby's. He was someone who had been there, who understood the effort and the loss it took to do what the job demanded. _What the job demanded._His entire family…the Winchester line all but blown away just like that. Hunters had no life, only a job without a paycheck to do it.

The August sun was leisurely starting to dip into the west. Cicadas began their funeral whirr, droning over Dean's internal musings as the light became less and less direct. It hadn't really crossed his mind that he'd been in the back part of the property all afternoon. The smell of warmth hinted with sweet turning wheat, a case of beer, and a box or two of recently fired ammunition had been enough to keep him occupied for most of the day.

"Not going down that easy, huh?" Dean straightened up and huffed, ticking down the safety he'd routinely put into place on the side of the gun. The inevitable dying light glinted off the bottle's neck and onto the rusting finish of the vehicle. "Everyone meets their match." He gritted out what he said with the sea of cars as witness, his tone sneering into the words.

The sky had turned into more of a rutilant haze just before it dipped into the flat Dakota woods along the horizon. A crack and the explosion of glass reverberated out sending a white tailed deer bolting up from its hidden foraging a field over. Any other day he wouldn't have had to repeat the phrase at all before meeting the mark.


	2. I Was Just Admiring Your Lovely Kitchen

**Chapter 1 **to** The Mark**

"**I Was Just Admiring Your Lovely Kitchen, Sir"**

**Author:** Wakingsparrow

**Author's Note:** To forewarn you, the time frame is going to jump around at first, but I swear it will all come together. Please let me know what you think and thank you for taking time to read!

* * *

"No, that's not possible!" A past forty and well manicured man snapped out at Dean, adhering rapidly to skepticism. Florescent beams highlighted the clammy crests of his features as he searched for the nearest escape from his own 'home and gardens' kitchen. He was a dentist, and not one of those cheating sorts that drilled holes in your other teeth during you numbed molar filling as job security. Clean cut. Looked five ways at four way stops. Pulled the thin bones out of fish before cooking them for his family type.

"You…you're…you're a fucking lunatic!" The man yelped wildly. He backed into his stainless steal refrigerator and shakily white knuckled a 5 inch steak knife as far as he could in front of him as if for his life. If Dean didn't have a little Sammy entity in the back of his head shooting him a warning glare, he sure as hell would have laughed dryly. He could probably just pound a fist down on the island or bitch slap the guy's hands and the flimsy silverware would somersault across the floor tile.

Dean's initial disclosure to the man of his situation, which occurred about 3 minutes ago, had run more along the lines of 'well, might as well put it to the dude straight'. Since then he'd determined he should look into better approaches. Breaking anything gently wasn't really his forte, he figured.

"You've been feeling different lately, haven't you? You know some thing is up. Increased paranoia, sweats, nightmares, resentment…" _These are probably symptoms he's been feeling…probably_.

The hunter advanced faux-leisurely with empty hands held up as if to calm the confrontation. Really, because who helped compose a man out of hysteria better than the stranger who'd been discovered lurking about his home and had just told him the most bizarre thing he'd ever heard. Sure, clearly he'd see reason. "Look, I'm telling you everything will be fine, I can help." It came out about as lamely as it truly sounded in his head. Yeah. Sam was way better at this thing.

"I…I'm going to call the cops, you hear? You just stay back, I'm not afraid to use this!" The near-to-butter knife equivalent quivered comically with each desperate and forceful pronunciation of the words.

Dean sincerely resisted the urge to sigh and wipe a weary hand over his aching temple, but he couldn't fight the movement. You'd think after a lifetime of trying to explaining the craziest sounding things to people, he'd have it down to a tee.

These were the worst damn circumstances imaginable. With him, it had always been sort of a 'cut and dry' state of affairs. You kill people: you're bad. You're a creepy kid that stares at you without blinking for a solid minute: 99.9% chance is you're bad. You can dissipate into smoke or can grow claws and an extra set of pointy teeth at any time ever: you're definitely freakin' bad. Nevertheless, if there was one thing his puppy eyed giant of a brother had educated him on in the last few years, it was that nothing was as it seems initially.

Some complication would inevitably come up where Sam would huff at him and shift his mammoth feet briefly before giving earnest consonances or apologies to the surrounding company. Later he'd chew out his elder, shorter brother in the Impala for being an insensitive or narrow-minded dick. Other times, his younger sibling wouldn't have to say anything at all. It was dead silence that drowned out the hum of the tires against asphalt harmonized with the variable purr of the engine that did it. That was enough to dredge up the neon flashing question…what if what they had done that day had been completely and utterly wrong?

The doctor in front of him this evening didn't quite match Dean's orthodox standards.

This was a family man. The nastiest thing on his record was a few speeding tickets and a bust at some hippie music deal when he was 18. He sent one hundred dollars a month to the library and volunteer occasionally at a nursing home. None of this was his fault. He was an alright guy overall, all men make mistakes.

That thought brought Dean to pause for a moment. Given what he knew at the present, all of this could very well be this man's fault. He was in fact, a good father; Dean had _almost_ envied the whole scene of 'father with older son football time and girl advice', 'father with younger son lessons on how fly a kite or make a killer PB and J'. He'd spied on all of it during recon missions in the Impala and the man he was stalking felt no obligation to hide his life. The dentist grilled out with neighbors. He laid flowers at his dead wife's grave. He folded his clothes neatly and ironed his suits. He watched the eleven o'clock news, had a drink of scotch, and went to bed.

However, it took far more digging to find the dark sides of people than the good. Some of the worst, most foul creatures in the world kept up good appearances. Rumors couldn't confirm that the doctor wasn't exactly innocent, but they were helping the hunter find the puzzle pieces that locked together. If Dean didn't figure out just how off the rails he was, there may be no way to stop a string of events from setting off like a line of firecrackers.

Dean inched closer to the individual who was set to hyperventilate and appeared to be making a serious attempt at dissolving into the fridge. The Winchester was a foot away before the knife had rattled out of the hand of the slighter man.

"Tesner right? William Tesner?"

Dean tipped his head down slightly, leaned against the island to square with him, and left a cushion of space to ease his companion. Determined eyes met alarmed ones, but they gave away that they weren't full of malice…or disbelief. This man had known something was changing, maybe just not what.

"I'm not crazy and neither are you. I need you to trust me… you need to listen right now." Trying to pick the right words wouldn't even cover a friggin' toothpick of it. "If you want to save your two boys from yourself, you have to do exactly as I say."

This was a situation even Dean would agree was smack in the middle of gray.

_to be continued..._


	3. Matters of the Family

**Chapter 2 **to** The Mark**

"**Matters of the Family"**

**Author:** Wakingsparrow

**Author's Note:** Sorry, I told you I was going to jerk the time frame around! The ending to this chapter is my favorite, but I'm not sure how to work through the plot to meet up with the previous chapter just yet.

Give me your opinion, I want to hear it for better or worse! I'd love some motivation.

* * *

The first puzzle piece that lead to his less than smooth encounter with Dr. Tesner came two weeks earlier.

* * *

After Dean had packed up the cooler and holstered his gun, he began the long walk from the farthest corner of the car lot. He loathed leaving his target practice frustrated, but he was tired of trying to concentrate. As his feet carried his back between the banged up metal masses, he let his mind wander.

...

It was deceptive to say it had been a slow month…it had been an absolutely dead month as far as jobs come. There had been a case that had merely ended up being three bizarre accidents in the same town. Two states over it was a D&D nerd messing with some _seriously sinister shit_ involving dove's blood. The spell would have made the head cheerleader fall in love with him for a grand total of 20 minutes. Bobby blamed Dean's sloppy intel mixed with his thing for cheerleaders that made that trip a near bust.

The only hunt that might have truly mattered was them putting down a restless spirit that had a thing for haunting the grieving by mimicking their deceased loved ones out of the corners of their eyes. That one had been particularly buckets of fun for two scarred hunters. You could have heard a feather drop on snow the entire ride back and neither one of the spoke of it.

Since then, Bobby had begun to dig at the 'long lost' articles. Newspapers towered up forming a massively monotonous labyrinth in a room that had once been intended for a bed and a dresser. The worn oak of the floor creaked under the files with so much as a foot step and dust from the pile longed to greet the sporadically howling wind. The haze of particles pressed into the tall windows and fogged the daylight.

Both men flipped through page after page, making a sport out of misspellings and funny last names. "_Irma Wanamaker…_" Dean would chuckle out from time to time. "_Wanna make her do what with a mug like THAT_?" The remarks would generally warrant an eye roll from Bobby, but he knew from behind the folded out manuscripts, it was accompanied with an obscured smirk.

The fact was, they were always certain they missed something no matter how thorough they had been in the past…and regretted it when one documented death turned into a long streak that they could have stopped. Thus the parchment walls shifted in some places and stacked up in others.

It was like trying to figuring out the pattern of rain drops in a downpour.

While the older hunter could rake over the yellowing serif font for days on end like a pro, Dean ultimately found himself far too restless to mull obituaries and dawdling small town hype for too long. He could oil every bolt and lug in the Impala if she weren't already preened and prepped by other days of boredom. He'd even taken up working on an old Camero, but most of the time he felt like a cheating bastard as his baby collected dust kicked up by the dry wind like moths to his bagged FED suit.

...

Dean suddenly shook his consciousness back from his memories. Realization dawned on him that he had made it back to the house and was sitting on the back porch steps already half way though a beer. _Great, I'm basically either getting senile from all the concussions or I'm losing my mind._ He finished the bottle in one go. _Possibly both._ He opened another.

The sun had gone out with a brilliant array of burnt oranges and cotton pinks and the sky was now littered with clear constellations. Heat still lingered in metal of the cars around him, though a rare breeze would come along and creak loose doors on some of them and they seemed to groan in satisfaction.

It had always been obvious to Dean why Bobby lived this far out from civilization. Prying eyes and gossipy neighbors were all literally fenced out from the Singer Salvage Yard. He had had his fill of tying to sleep with a constant roar of cars whenever he ended up in a wayside motel on a job. While a close bar would be nice, between the stock pile of rot-gut liquor and cheap beer that took up most of the fridge, there wasn't any point seeking out socialization with the backwoods' drunks of Sioux Falls.

He hadn't even been to a bar since…

"_Dean, what the HELL do you think you're doing?" The dim lighting spun like a top around him as he searched for the owner of the voice. Who's voice? Wait of course…he knew. He let out a brief and brainless giggle as he went back to a glass of jack on the rocks. _

_There's only one person that would be looking for him, and it was the last person he wanted to deal with right now…_

Dean shuttered slightly even though he was on the verge of sweating. He wanted something stronger than beer right now.

* * *

It was mid afternoon when Dean came in from wrenching away at his recent engine project for a glass of ice. By now he had figured out the room temperature tap water between the cracks of the fleeting solids allotted him two blissfully cool minutes before it was all lukewarm. You might as well drink you own sweat at that point.

"Think I got something." Bobby heaved a stack of papers onto his desk in the other room and pulled out a thick book Dean recognized as the older hunter's journal. The perspiration on the glass smudged the dirt on his fingers as it was set aside from the breaking news.

"It tracks back at least 150 years as far as I can tell."

_Alright._ Dean pulled the top paper off of the mound of articles and skimmed over the most recent publishing date. _Not such breaking news, but still something._

Bobby tapped an inscription in his notebook. "1974. A woman claims her daughter went on a camping trip with her father and was _quote_ 'sacrificed to wild animals'. The police report states her remains were found tied to a tree and rest had been scattered in a whole 20 yard radius. The dad was listed as missing." It seemed good timing he flipped the page and allowed the words to soak in.

"1932. Gerard Lenrick drowns himself in a bath tub after confessing in a cryptic suicide note he had murdered the elder two if his four children, though their remains where never found." The older hunter brushed aside the bookmark to finish the paragraph. "In the note, Lenrick had ranted about 'not remembering the act itself', only that he was guilty. He also professed his suspicion that his father had killed his childhood sister by throwing her into the sea, but it was written up as an accident." An old family photograph he had cut from the paper accompanied the words. The fading sepia photograph showed what looked to be his mother, brother, the murderer himself, his wife, and four kids – they at least looked pretty normal.

Bobby gave the Winchester an expectant look as he snapped the book shut and precariously balanced it on the cluttered desk.

"That's creepy and all, but it could just be a bunch of nut jobs ready for a straight jacket or death row."

"I know it's not much from the looks of it, but this wasn't just random." The past mechanic shook his head and sifted through a few of the top news prints. The stack spread around them in the available patches of the disorderly living space, certain lines circled in red ink. "…they're all from the same blood line. What's more is that from the records I have, its always two kids in a generation, and one girl the next. Just repeats over and over till the paper trail ends when original ancestors migrated here."

"So what, a family hex then?" Dean thumbed a corner of one of the papers as he skimmed an article.

"That's my best guess at it. It's a full on Kennedy. I'm working on figuring out where the descendants are right now. Even when I do, Dean, I'm not sure what we're gunna do about it. I don't know what we're up against."

Dean insisted on helping map out a family tree, but Bobby shooed him away with pen in hand absentmindedly, muttering something about 'adding more confusion as usual' and 'useless when you're hung over anyway'. He went out to the Camero, but couldn't muster the desire to get back under the hood this time. He set to cleaning the arsenal of guns worthy of a small army as today's distraction.

* * *

"You know you're gunna have to talk to him sooner or later, right?" Bobby lowered into a vinyl dining chair and glanced down at the bowl in front of him with hesitation.

It was far past twilight and crickets took up their habitual substitution for the cicadas. The kitchen light over the table cast stark shadows that made both men look about as tired as they really were. Today had been even more blistering than the last; the younger hunter had gone so far as to sport a dark green wife beater and was embarrassed to say…a pair of cut off jeans.

_It's freakin' hot, okay?_

_Yeah? And I still look like a freakin' douche bag._

It probably wasn't healthy to argue with one's self, but it had been a persistent dispute all day at every downward sighting of his pale legs. Douche bag or not, wearing full length pants in this weather was not an option.

He slopped something indiscriminate looking that _might_ be categorized as stew from a pot on the stove and chose not to answer Bobby's question.

Sadly man cannot live on burgers alone. Truth was that Dean would swallow thickly at the thought of any of the restaurants in town these days. Apparently he was so desperate for something different he'd even try his own cooking. He'd seen a lot of disturbing things in his life, but each new attempt he'd made took the pie.

Honestly, he itched to hit the road so badly he would either catch himself pacing a hole in the floor or staring out in the direction of the highway fiddling his car keys. What he wouldn't give for a cute blonde waitress and a horrendous truck stop menu. He longed for hills and rushing rivers as his entertainment, but most of all, he missed the company of his brother. Bobby was right, as usual, but the pride in him couldn't allow himself to admit it.

Dean joined him at the table and jammed a spoonful of the concoction into his mouth before his senses could object. The sludge didn't make him gag if he gulped it down quickly and he took that as a sign of decent improvement. Just to be sure, though, he took a substantial drag off his beer. The two men were like that for a while with only the sound of metal scraping against ceramic and intermittent crescendos of bug prattle to fill the background.

Finally he spoke.

"He made it pretty clear he didn't want to talk to me, Bobby. I'm just respecting his wishes." Hazel eyes were anchored to the meal in front of him and he could have sworn he saw something move.

The silence of their dinner had apparently built up a knot of irritation in the man across from him.

"Look, I don't know what happened between you two buffoons, but we've all seen this before." Bobby let his silverware clack against the bowl's side as he waved out his hands in frustration. "Been there, done that, for God's _sake_." It took a moment, but with the straightening of a ball cap, they calmly rested back on the table. He continued a bit softer this time, but with a matching edge in his tone. "Do you even know what he's up to these days? If he's alive?"

Dean's shoulders stiffened. "Gee, I dunno Bobby. He's most likely with some new friends at a slumber party making a blanket fort."

Motionless hands on the table jerked to life and slammed down on the hard wood making the recently discarded spoon clatter around the rim. "I don't care who got whose panties in a twist, but you boys ain't doing yourselves any favors by lettin' it carry on. You keep each other in check. Neither one of you has ever been better off without the other."

Dean could feel the weight of the man's severe stare practically lasering its way past the skull and into gray matter. He wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, but even the crickets seemed to smell the tension and shut up. Somewhere in the back of the house a clock chimed away, but Dean didn't bother to note the hour.

"You're as damn stubborn as your father, you know that? Don't wonder why I just about shot him full of somethin' harder than rock salt on more than one occasion." With that Bobby screeched back his chair and put his bowl in the sink, clearly worn out with the one sided shrink moment to continue.

Dean dug a pattern around his bowl in the congealing slop to distract himself from anxiously bouncing his leg under the table. He could argue back, he could defend his lack of actions and then storm out of the house like a 16 year old, if it didn't mean having to think about the whole situation yet again. _Don't wanna go there. No point._

Bobby sighed deeply to demonstrate his resignation.

"I think your cooking's getting better." He guffed as he stalked his way to the living room.

That at least got Dean to steal a look up from his bowl.

"Really?"

"No, you _Idjit_"


	4. The Spins

**Chapter 3 **to** The Mark**

"**The Spins"**

**Author:** Wakingsparrow

**Author's Note:** I apologize this is the tiniest of chapters ever, but I needed to get it out of my system as well as out of the way before I could move on. I swear the next chapter will be longer, and may include a fresh face and road trip action to switch it up.

Also, thanks goes out to all the reviews, you guys are great! And Ronisoomine, of course I take it as a compliment ;)

Per usual, review and critiques make my day, so don't be stingy!

Chapter 4, coming soon.

* * *

Dean chucked the recently emptied bottle of Old Crow as far as he could and bumped back against the side of the Impala. It took at least 15 seconds for the satisfying sound of glass decimating on the black quarry bottom to reach him from far below, but who was counting anyway? He greedily sucked in the chilly air around him. The first storm front in what seemed like forever had soaked the parched fields for only a few minutes tonight, but behind it came cooler temperatures.

That reminded him of dinner, though a better choice of words in place of 'cool' might be 'frigid'.

Dean cursed and swigged up his flask to his mouth. _My list of things I'd rather not think about is getting too damn long. _Alcohol bit at the back of his throat and forced him to cough slightly before he could swallow again.

The idea of being at the salvage yard right now only agitated him and he figured it was good that other hunter and he have some time apart. They both had been cooped up together in that boiling house, and while Bobby was used to it, Dean was probably driving him crazy vicariously.

He had sat there in silence for twenty minutes after Bobby'd finished his rant before he cleared his bowl from the table, grabbed his jacket and keys, and roared off. A quarry outlying off the road and long abandoned after the minerals were tapped out was the best location he could think of. _I need to clear my head…and then unclear it with something to drink. _Drink he did.

...

_A strong hand seized his shoulder and yanked him around from the bar before Dean could scarcely register it. The lights danced in his vision, leaving little comet trails in their wake. _

"_Git 'ff' me." He sloppily tried to shake loose the vice grip, but in his effort it became the only thing that kept him from tumbling off the stool. _

"_God, Dean, this is pathetic. Do you even have a clue how much you've drank?" _

_Sam. _

_Oh great, that's right. He'd found him. Fan-fucking-tastic. _

_He took in a lungful of air to sober himself up, but it only made him aware of the reek of liquor on his breath. Dean staggered to his feet and pried his younger brother's fingers from his leather jacket. _

"_Whatssit to you? If I'd wanted a woman to nag me, I'da got one." _

_He didn't even have to look at him to know that Sam existing bitch face had grow oh-so much more bitchier at the comment. The actual sight of it made him let out a low snigger he couldn't possibly restrain._

_That might have been a mistake._

"_What's so funny?" The man hissed dangerously. "You being plastered seven ways to Sunday while we're in the middle of a job?" Sam hushed his voice faintly and locked eyes with him; Dean yet again internally cursed genetics as he was dwarfed. The buzz kill leaned closer to other man's flushed face and grimaced at the stench of well whiskey. "What's funny? Innocent people probably being killed right now and you've decided to ignore it as usual?"_

"'_Nore it?" With that, Dean shoved the taller man away sharply causing a few of the scattered bar patrons to take notice. "What the fuck am I s'post to do? Tell me Sammy, what's you genius Stanford plan!"_

"_Oh don't even start with that one again." Sam laughed out incredulously. "I'm trying to figure out a solution to this crap situation before the body count racks up even higher! And what do you do?" He brushed a wrinkle out of his shirt where his brothers hands had made contact and broadened his shoulders. "Drink it all away like it doesn't matter."_

_Dean's fists clenched at his sides and he hazily considered taking a swing for the jaw. He knew, however, his arm would be wrenched up behind his back long before it would make contact. As much false bravado as whiskey gave him, he knew he was no match for Sam this drunk__._

"_I don't haveta' fucking listen to this." _

_Dean slammed a fifty on the bar and stumbled toward the illuminated exit sign. His head throbbed and he wanted to throw up, but it was less from the alcohol and more from the words thrumming around between his temples._

_...  
_

Dean abruptly gasped for air as if he had just been held under water and shook his head as if to empty it. He established by sensation he was now sitting on the gravel with his back against the Impala, and saw another fifth of Crow opened and a forth gone. So much for not thinking about it, he'd completely lost track of time reliving it.

It took some effort to jerk open the back seat door in his condition, but he knew he wasn't returning to the car lot tonight. He clumsily threw himself onto the leather and dragged up a blanket from under the passenger seat.

_Sweet dreams, you murderer._ He peered up through the window at the spinning scattered stars and prayed he wouldn't feel like hell in the morning.


	5. Intrusions

**Chapter 4 **to** The Mark**

"**Intrusion"**

**Author:** Wakingsparrow

**Author's Note:** Sooooo I lied. It will be the next chapter that has us reeling into action. Any additional faces in this one are not necessarily what I hinted at before. I've come to the conclusion there are going to be quite a few more flash backs than I had anticipated. I've taken a predisposition to the preceding story between Dean and Sam, but am very much dead set on interworking it into what is about to take place. I hate to tack in another battle-less chapter, but it's quite a bit of fun to play up Dean's point of view.

Love it? Let me know! Hate it? Let me know! Don't know how you feel? Letttt meeee know!

I'm at the cross roads of the story right now. Don't make me bury a box with an peppering of precise contents just to pry it out of you.

* * *

...

Dean shifted and quaffed at his arid mouth for what little moisture was left, but the act alone made him groan in discomfort. Where was he? His body's aching implied he may have gotten in a fight, but that didn't seem to ring any bells. Usually he reveled in landing a solid punch on some jackass as a memento of his consumption labors, or at least had a tender cheek or a fractured rib if he didn't manage that.

Everything felt densely hot and constricted and he couldn't stretch his legs more than a 60 degree angle before they met something solid. He cracked open his eyes and found nothing but murky scarlet around him. A sound tinned and tacked all above as if he was in a casket and dirt was being shoveled over him.

_No, seriously. What the hell? _

This was all too familiar.

...

Slick red everywhere lit up with flashes of searing light - heat choking him out - chains pinching blood blisters into his skin and binding his movement. He laid on an odd texture of what seemed to be dense jelly and broken sticks. It was if he was riding waves, too, rolling about in a ship's bilge, when he sickly realized it was all moving. They were parts. _Living squirming chunks of anatomy under him_. He wanted to clutch his hands over the sides of his head as thousands of screams swelled up and nearly broke his ear drums, but he was bound tight. He erratically inhaled the stink of severed rotting entrails and felt the thick current of tepid blood steadily rise over his neck and snake around his frame.

...

Dean shuttered violently and nearly wretched as he jolted up with a guttural cry, arms thrashing wildly.

The roof of the Impala clipped the top of his forehead with a loud agonizing bang and a thin maroon blanket slipped off his face and pooled in his lap. Jet darkness inundated his vision and as he adjusted to it, he could see the faint outline of the steep quarry walls just beyond, lit up by an ivy swallowed yard light some ways away. Strange translucent markings slid down the vehicle's window casting crawling shadows on the upholstery of the car and distorted his view. Dean's breath was labored, but eased gradually. Buckets of rain, not earth…drips, not worms in flesh.

_That makes more sense…_

He gripped the cloth at his waist so tightly his fingers began to pin-prick with numbness. Dean hadn't dreamt of hell in at least a month, let alone freaked out about it when he was, _though scarcely_, awake. God, he'd been such an idiot to believe he was over this nightmare. The shrieks still echoed around his cranium but faded the harder he concentrated through the wilting glass on the dim storm-swept plains. He dipped his head down with a strangled wheeze and registered a few trickles of liquid on his face from his dilated eyes.

So much for counting on a prayer…

As stale air entered his lungs he realized he hadn't been smart enough to at least crack a window the night before. His stomach churned and he wished he would have slept longer, lessening his present illness. It was scarcely a second before he knocked open the Impala's back door and was purging up acidic fluid onto the loose waterlogged stone.

After a minute of misery, he spat and limply rolled over on the ground, taking in the torrent of rain above him. It felt invigorating on his feverish skin and it had been so long since the land had been watered this significantly, he'd practically forgotten what puddles looked like.

The night before was coming to him slowly with each wash of the soggy breeze. The vulgar brew of dinner and the elevated words exchanged, combined with the memory of his argument with Sam before everything blew to shit, made him remember he'd just puked up a bottles worth of barrel resin. Anytime a fight with Bobby occurred, there were only two ways around it: take his warning and make what use of it you could give or take, or avoid the whole ordeal in hopes it would resolve its self. Sadly, the latter had never really worked out all too well.

A violent, fizzling, stripe of lightning flashed down into the endless land and for a moment, everything like the day. It left a vanishing amethyst outline in its wake and a crack of a heavenly cannon so loud, it rattled the tail pipe of the Impala.

_Good morning star shine, the earth says hello._

Ugh, he wanted to throw up again. The alcohol was evidently not out of his system.

* * *

...

Dean pointedly ordered the greasiest burger possible with a side of infinite glasses of water and leaned back against the worn corner booth. Sioux Fall's twenty four hour/seven days a week _Annie's Tavern _was at its usual bustling capacity of three, even at five in the morning. Alcohol was cut off at two AM, but the upstairs rooms were rented out at a meager price to the intoxicated, which kept the law enforcement from interfering. Antlered buck heads were hung intermittently on the dark wood of the walls along with a spew of random antique photographs and tchotchkes. Thick and tasseled floral drapes were perpetually pulled back from the windows with rope ties, gathering a layer of dust so thick, it was hard to decipher the original color of the cloth. The structure was on the far border of the town off a cul-de-sac, which made it even less accessible to the passer-throughs and all the more desirable to the hunter.

He refused his body a shiver as he recalled his moment of panic earlier. It had been a few years since Dean had dragged himself up from his own grave, but it stuck with him like a thirsty tick. Still made him bolt up in bed gasping for air like it was just moments before, pawing at the nonexistent dirt that filled his mouth and choking on the taste his own perspiration. He should have been more understanding about Sam's insomnia in those hotels they shared. Hell was far more fresh and unbearable for him. Though his stint had been shorter, it had been a hundred times worse. His brother had needed someone to talk to whether he wanted to or not, but Dean had been too afraid to even go there. He thought he had been doing him some favor by giving him his space, but in retrospect, he wasn't so certain he didn't simply come off looking like a dick.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and flipped it open. No missed calls. Not surprising. He fingered over the speed dial that would reach Sam's most recent number, assuming it was still working, but he shut it and placed on the laminated table. It was more than hell that separated them now. Not after that last time they were together, the events that had unfolded.

"Yuh look like shit, kid."

A gravely voice deadpanned above him making him jump slightly.

In his threadbare state, Dean hadn't even resister that the thin, aged, aproned woman had approach his booth. She set down a mug and filled it full of an opaque tan liquid, but it didn't steam as he expected coffee to. He looked up at her skeptically.

With a dutiful smirk involving a few missing teeth, her two fingers that clamped a cigarette tapped a bottle of something tucked in her front pocket where straws would usually go. The top of the container dripped with red wax, and he knew the trademark liquor. "My iced specialty to beat the heat, hang over, or heartbreak."

_All thee above, in that case._ His eyes shot up to the woman's collar and read her name tag. Well if it wasn't old Annie her self. _You wily fiend, before noon (or eight am) and everything._

"A man yer handsome age shouldn' look as much like road kill as yah do." She winked a mascara leadened eye, crow's feet turning upward like her willowy smile.

Before he could say anything she started to leave, patting his shoulder. Not but two steps away, though, she turned back around. "You best put right whatsever hassling you, son. You don't have all the time in the world. Goes quicker than yer think."

_You have no idea, lady…_

She left him be after that and he felt mildly creeped out, but the words rang true.

Gingery he sipped the spicy creamy drink she'd poured and after a few minutes, it surprisingly made him feel a better. By the time his burger came he didn't feel too ill to eat and it seemed to help soak up the lingering cheap whiskey that burned his chest.

Dean typically prided himself in being stoic, but with the combination of Bobby's intense fuming and a total stranger's brief assessment, it was clear his current state of mind was less than veiled. The silent phone of the table mocked him, so he tucked it back in his pocket. He'd had enough extrospective advice in the last 24 hours to last him a year.

The cobalt hue from the sky murmur out a gentle warning that the mantle of night was fraying hastily. Whatever concoction of drink he'd been served left him feeling wired and at ease as he folded his payment under the mug and drove his way back to the yard. It was no use avoiding it, he had no where else to go.

As he rolled down the potholed lane to the fenced entrance, he noticed the recently fresh set of tire marks in the mud.

_That's weird, Bobby isn't much for visitors._

The Impala rumbled up next to a grimy green pickup and he felt his full stomach twist. Whoever it was, they could be a multitude of things, a demon looking for vengeance, an old hunter friend, a customer who actually believed this was a junk yard...

_Or it could also be Sam_.


	6. Surnames

**Chapter 5 **to** The Mark**

"**Surnames"**

**Author:** Wakingsparrow

**Author's Note:**

Well aren't I making a liar out of myself? Still no lovely hum of asphalt and wind whipping though our main character's hair yet. Cut me a break! I totally had writers block and my birthday is rapidly approaching (cinco de mayo, bebe!), so no time to indulge in the company of my keyboard. This time, I promise, no…swear, we'll be enjoying some road trip action by next chapter. Hey, I'm gunna be 24! How creepy is that? Yikes! Half the time I get ID'd I hesitate and think I'm still 22! *snort.

...

* * *

...

Mist settled over the yard as the sun broke the horizon, rocketing hazy beams off grimy car windows, reflecting onto little lakes of rain from the night before. Sparrows had began their resounding praise of the light from their lofty perches on the metal heaps, and one of the stray tom cats Bobby too offhandedly swore he wasn't feeding slinked under the green Ford truck out of sight. A track of footprints bee-lined up to the house without falter. Who ever they belonged to, they knew where they were going.

The thrumming in Dean's chest rose up to hammer in his ears as he swung open his Chevy's door. He could be walking into a variety of situations: A) It could be a black eyed son of a bitch strapped to a chair undergoing exorcism between gasps of black smoke. B) It could be a kitchen full of blood splatter everywhere and Bobby's lifeless form leaving a red streak down the paper tacked wall. C) It could be the aforementioned old hunter ushering out a confused commoner looking for spare parts…or D) Sam Winchester pulling his standard puppy eyes and filling him in on the hunt they'd shared almost two months ago. Every option had Dean on edge, and naturally he was hoping it wasn't B or D, but appalling enough, D made his blood pressure rush up like a broken dam.

He was at a 50% sprint when he bounded up the steps and skidded past the spring taunt door into the kitchen. The scene before him froze: Bobby was by the stove in the midst of pouring coffee, healthy as ever, flannel looking as dog-eared as the day before. The screened entrance behind him clacked against the wood frame noisily, making his presence better than acknowledged. Dean's head jerked over to register an unfamiliar man leaning back in a chair and mid-pause stirring the similar liquid in a mug. Instantly the heart that was moments before occupying his throat plummeted. He had been so stupid to even give the thought it would be Sam a second. He took a half step back and tried to catch his breath discreetly. It was safe to assume this wasn't a life threatening situation, though it was an embarrassing one. _E) None of thee above…_He always sucked at multiple choice tests in school.

"Glad you joined us, Dean." Bobby topped up a cup with caffeine and set it on the table space closest to the new arrival. "Got the Impala all set for a trip?"

Still in the doorway, he side-eyed the older hunter. "Yeah, I could be about ready to leave if I had to." _That was an understatement, he'd been equipped to jump up and motor off at the drop of a hat for the last two weeks_. He took up the coffee in front of him but didn't sit down. The warmth of the drink was absolutely unappetizing and the feel of the room was far too awkward for his comfort, but he knew he couldn't go escape outside now.

"Good." Bobby put the kettle on the burner and wiped his forehead with the back on his hand. "I'll get the names and directions for you two" The man disappeared into the living room.

.

_You two? What the hell?_

_.  
_

Only now did Dean become aware that person at the table was brazenly sizing him up. Hazel-green eyes met with russet ones for an ephemeral instant, before they both flicked away. He couldn't read into anything from the fleeting gaze, but now he did have an excuse to actually look at the guy. He guessed he was around Sam's age, though not as tall and a much slighter build. Inky curls were pulled back loosely into a tie and his 5 o'clock shadow had undoubtedly been long forgotten for enough time it had developed into a scruffy short beard. A crude established scar ran just above one of his dark eyebrows and a 9 millimeter Beretta peaked out from under the edge of his jacket. He was a hunter, that much was for damned sure, though he'd never seen him before.

As they both took their time in assessing the other, Dean found he was more or less annoyed he'd been taken off guard. He could feel the dark bags under his eyes grow all the fuller and the gleam of dirt and sweat swathe him. Its not like he'd slept at the Hilton's and dreamed like a school girl. Shit, it had been only a few hours in the back of the Impala chalked full of whiskey that he'd rested. The recesses of his mind purged up his nightmare, but he clenched his jaw and forced the horror back down. _Not fucking now._

The man before him, however, looked all fresher with the seven AM hour. His clothing was dark and worn and he presented himself with ease, tilted back in the chair as if he were in his own home. He tasted his drink casually and met Dean's eyes once more. It was again an illegible connection, but much too severe and cognizant for the weary hunter's state of mind. Dean already didn't like this guy's attitude; he was too exhausted and pissed to put up with any bull from visitors, even if they hadn't done a thing.

It appeared as though the other was on the verge of speaking, mouth agape with words, when Bobby emerged from the next room and cut short the strange exchange of judgments. He spread out a roll of paper onto the smooth timber to reveal a lengthy list of names jaggedly connected by lines.

"The family blood runs dry 'cept for this." He ran a finger down a bending trail that ended with two names. "We've got William Tenser - a plumber, suspiciously widowed with two sons – and his older brother Amon Tesner, a banker who's been recently separated and's barren thus far. It was their sister that got all mauled up in the woods when they were kids, so that leaves us with the next part of the pattern."

Dean leaned back against the counter. "Well, who doesn't sound like our cursed target?" He swallowed the bitter coffee and contorted his mouth. "Geez, Bobby, make it a little stronger will yah? You could stick a spoon in this vertical." Remembering he shouldn't be so lax with new company around, he shifted upright. "So where they at?"

…

Though his cup was drained by the end of the conversation, he felt more jittery than alert. His unwanted companion had been silent the entire time, simply nodding to make mental notes about the hunt ahead. Only after the brief hushed pause when Bobby's lecture was over, did he excused himself to dig though his pickup for necessities.

Though the fog had lifted though the shuttered windowpanes, the heat of the day began to make it's self know with each bead of sweat that emerged onto Dean's freckled features. The storm, with its gracious cool the night before, had doubled back on its self to renew the failing summer's humidity. Distant clanging and thuds of baggage encouraged him to finally speak freely. As frustration bubbled up in Dean like a geyser, he turned his elder with tense shoulders.

"What the hell Bobby? We finally find a job and you stick me with a total stranger? _Let's hit the road!_ I can hardly work with someone I know, let alone this guy! It's you and me, Bobby, let's get it done."

The other man stared back wordlessly with knowing solidity behind his eyes.

"You can't be serious!" Dean started again, exasperated. "I'm not a freakin' babysitter here. You know the details, I _need_ you on this."

He longed to bring his fist to something solid, but knew it would hardly help his point. His temper generally never convinced anyone to change their mind nicely, despite his consistent efforts.

"Dean, I've got more people counting on me than just you, yah know. I'd love to go with your sorry ass all the way to Texas, but the fake FBI doesn't run its self."

The ball-capped man sorted through a pile of paper and turned over a book. "Look, I know you're not all that thrilled about this, but I want you to know this isn't some sort of punishment I'm putin' on you. I'm the only one you've talked to in weeks. Might be good for you to deal with someone else for a while."

A thud from outside - perceptibly metal against soil, timed between the words prophetically.

"I talked to Sam."

Dean swore his heart suddenly went into atrial fibrillation.

.

_Shit. No no no. Not right now. I can't deal with this._

_.  
_

"He didn't say much about you two or what happened, damn Winchester shut-mouths, but from what I gathered, I can't go and let you take a job alone right now. I know 'this guy's' family. He's a decent hunter, comes from a few of them. You won't be doing and babysitting, I'll promise yah that."

Dean didn't want to give up the argument, but he was terribly relieved Sam was well and had the tact not to divulge more to their surrogate father of anything else. At least it was clear what had happened stayed between the two of them.

He ground his teeth and emptied the last drop of coffee onto his tongue as a distraction. "Whatever. I don't even know the guy's name."

Bobby handed him the book he'd dug up.

"Sylas."

He gave him a satisfied crook of a smile, knowing he'd gotten the younger man to concede to the trip. The other took the hardback and flipped through the pages slowly.

"Sylas Mordel."

Dean's face fell rapidly at that.

_Mordel._

That was a name he sure as hell hadn't forgotten.

_Well this should be an interesting hunt_.

...

* * *

_Reviews for my birthday? Pretty please?_


	7. Messing with a Son of a Bitch

**Chapter 6 **to** The Mark**

"**Now You're Messing with a Son of A Bitch"**

**Author:** Wakingsparrow

**Author's Note: **Going home to see my family for my birthday was such an inspiration of ideas. They live in the middle of no where…it was very foggy in the morning and I took a walk though soggy fields and woods. That afternoon I wandered around the meadow and breathed in fresh air and was serenaded by at least 30 types of birds. My homestead is fantastically free of highways, sirens, helicopters, raving drunken homeless men, and gun shots. Naturally because of this lack of noise, I was unable to sleep more than two hours at a time the entire duration I was there…hahaha…But anyway! This isn't the chapter I wanted it to be, but I feel like I have a decent foot hold to start climbing the mountain.

I know exactly where I'm going with the Sam and Dean flashbacks now and I have to admit, I am extremely excited. Just trust me on this one. I think it will be worth the intermittent italics of the chapters.

Please let me know what you think!

* * *

...

…

_Dean stalked away from the bar to the Impala and dug his flask from the inner pocket of his jacket. One night, one friggin' reprieve from this God awful job is all he'd wanted. Yeah, people were drying; people die everyday. Why should he have to become the judge between which actions are right to end it and which ones aren't. Bickering with Mr. 'president of the debate team' Sam always ended up with Dean wanting to occupy where ever the nearest source of liquor was. Couldn't he just have one damn moment he could take a step back from it this time? He'd been sober as grave stone for the last week and a half._

_He sighed and breathed in the earthy forest breeze that surrounded the parking lot. Fact of the matter was, both Sam and he were on hanging on to a thread when it came down to this case. It was like they were running around a rat maze that consisted only of dead ends…terrible solutions to fix an even more horrible problem. Dean had to get away from it tonight, it was too much for him to try to wrap his brain around._

_His vision swam off kilter as he took several deep swallows of searing liquid. The burn eased the throbbing of his head slightly, so he tilted it back up to his mouth. Just as he heard the back door lazily clink shut from his exit, it banged back open with a vengeance. A striding set of foot steps approached him and he took another hurried hit off the flask before he wouldn't be able to again. _

_The Sasquatch slammed a hand on the driver's side door, blocking any optimism of escape. Even in the subdued light, eye contact was again made and the damp air of the night seemed to evaporate into dust. _

_Dean couldn't help but shift under the vicious gaze._

_Without an audience around, his brother's words became barbed and unbridled. "Whatever. You want to hide away from this like a coward, that's fine. Guess, what? It's still going to be there in the morning - just now you'll be puking in the toilet and feeling like hell!" _

_Dean practically snarled as he pushed himself off the car with his elbows and circled the man._

"_How dare you say'm hiding like a coward! That girl - holed in that motel room-" He shot out his index finger in the completely wrong direction of where they were staying, but he could care less, "is the only person I've been able to think 'bout since we figured out what's causing the attacks. Are you going to tell me that some people are jus' unlucky? As stuck up shit creek as we are, even though they did nothing ta'serve it?" _

_The older Winchester visibly seethed and imbibed a hearty amount of his flask in one go, not caring at this point if his brother would use it against him. _

_He coughed briefly and ran his hand though his clammy hair before continuing. "I'm sick of the fucking guilt, S'mmy. So what if I want to feel something...ANYTHING else for a change. So what if tomorrow I end up drivin' the porcelain bus! It's something ELSE!" _

_He was breathless and scarlet faced now, the veins in his forehead pronounced._

_"What are we supposed to do, Sam? Kill her?"_

_His giant of a brother stood silent, eyes cast onto the concrete.  
_

_ "Tell me what we're S'POSED TO DO!"_

* * *

_...  
_

Cool water streamed down Dean's body as he attempted futilely to massage out his deafening memories and what was left of the nauseating alcohol in his system. Hot showers were the last thing a sane person would take in this weather. One could only pray that the cistern was shielded enough in the ground from the summer to take off some body heat. There was no way he was going to roll onto the highway without air conditioning and not have at least a little more preparation, especially if he was going with some child A _Mordel_… he bit at his cheek with contempt and scrubbed soap from his hair briskly.

He couldn't even believe Bobby would ditch him now, not after all the weeks of research they'd done to come up with a credible job. Dean gnashed his teeth for what seemed like thousandth time. Yeah, okay, he got that the older man answered the counterfeit phone lines like a skirt clad secretary for at least five other hunters. This was different though, this was exactly what they had both needed…

As shower became increasingly lukewarm and steamed the crooked mirror, he knew the break for relaxation was over. He toweled off, grabbed toothpaste and aftershave from the cabinet, clothed himself, and made his way through the book piles downstairs.

Bobby sat on the paint-chipped steps of the porch with a thick folder next to him, attentively petting the scruffy stray the Impala's arrival had frightened off earlier. He cooed something baby-like as it nudged his hand for more attention and he stroked down the burred fur with a small beard-obscured smile. Usually Dean would have had a hundred mocking quips on the tip of tongue, but his sentimental wounds were still stinging with so much betrayal, he opted to stay silent as he let the screen door ricocheted behind him.

"You ready?" Singer heaved himself up with a grunt and handed him the archive of documents, pretending he hadn't just been preening the cat that now rubbed a figure eight between his muddy boots.

"Yeah, _sure_." Dean mumbled dismissively and thumped down to the walkway, tossing his duffel bag through the open back window of the Chevy. He looked around momentarily before popping open the trunk to double check that the stockpile of weapons were carefully concealed. "Where's the kid?"

"_Kid's_ right here." The dark haired hunter rounded from his hiding place behind his dusty pickup and toed out a glowing cigarette butt. "Your hair doesn't look as good as I though it would since it took you an hour to curl iron it."

_Creak, slam._ That mouthy little bastard was violating his baby's passenger seat just as quickly as that, boot up on the dashboard, mulling over a map of the western states. _He was going to throttle this guy and toss him into a ditch. A steep one, with lots of nettles. That's the end of it. _Dean shot Bobby a severe glare as he eased into the driver's seat and brushed off the steering wheel, but the man wouldn't give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

"Just take 29 down to Omaha. It's basically a straight shot from there, boys." The graying man tapped the ebony hood reassuringly and made his way back to the farm house. Dean could have sworn he saw him smirking as he turned away.

The engine roared to life and he dug though his box of tapes with conviction. The other man glanced over at him and concealed a snort with a wheezing cough.

"Get your feet off the leather." Dean deadpanned uncouthly.

The younger complied, hiking the map up to create a thin wall between them as they sloped downwards to the onramp of the high way.

Dean didn't bother to blare the song that garbled under the purr of the Impala until the chorus.

"…_Time's come to pay your dues…_

_Now you're messin' with a__ - __A son of a bitch_

_Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch_

_Now you're messin' with a__ - __A son of a bitch…_

_Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch_

_..._

_Talkin' jivey, poison ivy _

_You ain't gonna cling to me _

_Man taker, born faker _

_I ain't so blind I can't see_

_...  
_

The rustling of paper was heard and Dean glanced over through the blinding sunlight to find golden brown eyes glowering a him, the upturned corner of lips challenging him back.

Suddenly the mouth changed into a small 'o' and began whistling off-tune along with the song. Sylas's head bobbed away slowly with the beat of the cowbell to stare at the fields flying by, fingers tapping obnoxiously on the rawhide upholstery of the door.

The chorus resounded patronizingly with the calculated tone deaf accompaniment. At least the thrumming of flesh against leather stayed true...

_Now you're messin' with a__ - __A son of a bitch_

_Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch_

_Now you're messin' with a__ - __A son of a bitch…_

_Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch_

_...  
_

It was going to be a long drive.

...

_I giggle at Dean's attempt to insult...I can't help myself. R&R!  
_


	8. The Wrong Deja Vu

**Chapter 8 **to** The Mark**

"**The Wrong Deja Vu"**

**Author:** Wakingsparrow

**Author's Note:** A long time in coming and not at all what I want it to be, but if I don't get something out I won't get to the chapter I've already written and am in love with. Life has been way too crazy, mostly in a good way. I hope the same for all of you! Bare with me! I've got quite a few things up my sleeve. We'll be reading some major butting of heads between the current characters, a different sort of flash back, and a drawing fresh off the pencil I made to go along with it. ;)

...

* * *

...

Three songs after his companion decided he was a one man band, Dean had had enough. He should be feeling elated that he was back on the road with some real work to do and the last thing he could put up with was that being soured. It was fairly obvious that the passenger was making a sport out of debasing each of his classics with terrible harmonization.

He clicked off the stereo with salty conviction and let a broad silence make his point. The man beside him became still taking up a notebook, probably knowing he was pushing his luck, and Dean finally enjoyed the tuned sound of the Impala over the asphalt. The engine sang to him for a few hours and the heat made the horizon quiver and wave as the sun reached its apex above. The car wove past cars and cargo trucks here and there; gaudy billboards advertized casinos or strip clubs that where at least an hour away.

While it all seemed so familiar to Dean, he realized it felt detached. It wasn't quite like it was in the past, the whole sensation, the smell and taste had changed about it. All the temperament he had cherished was still so close like ash that had just been thrown up in the wind, but he knew it never come back the same way. It was this that struck him swiftly. The temperature in the cabin was too hot, the lack of classic rock made his blood thud in his ears discomfortingly, the stranger next to him was not someone he could count on watching his back…this…this all of this was not right. A sick twist of the wrong kind of déjà vu bubbled up in his blood and made his hands feel slick on the steering wheel.

Dean shifted in his seat and searched frantically for a distraction.

"We'll have to stop in the next few hours for food. Tell me you aren't a freakin' vegetarian or something.

His unwanted copilot turned with a solemn expression.

"_Organic vegan…_Christ, do you even know what you're putting in your body? But hey," Sylas shrugged and admired the passing fields, "I doubt you even think about your environmental footprint."

The silence was so thick you could practically take a lard bath in it. Dean gritted his jaw and eyed the ditch. Was it steep? Was that a patch of thorn bushes the Impala had just flown by he'd just wasted? Maybe he should back up and claim he'd lost his exhaust pipe.

The guest shook his head emphatically and dug though the bag he's stashed at his feet. "It's people like you who really do all the damage." He pulled out a cellophane package. "You're the sheep that don't care about future life."

The parcel he held obnoxiously squeaked open with a pull. Sylas shoved half a twinkie in his mouth. "Yo'ree sush a pearibel 'berson"

He swallowed thickly and toothily beamed cream filling remains. "You don't have a fur coat I can splatter some red paint on do you?"

It took the amount of time Dean seethed with insult for him to catch on.

It was a joke.

Probably one he would taken pride in making if he were in the same circumstances.

Dean gritted his teeth.

"Whatever."

...

* * *

...

Another hour flew by before he decided to speak again.

"So Bobby _assures_ me you're good at what we do." _'And I trust his opinion of people'_ went unspoken, but didn't have to be vocalized. "If we're going to be stuck together on this, I need to know you can watch your own back. So what have you got? How long have you been at this?"

An abandoned off ramp whipped by and the overhead bridge darkened everything for a flicker. Sylas seemed to mull the inquiry a little to long for Dean's comfort, but he shifted upright in the leather seat and spoke.

"So, what, are we going to parade trophies and see who comes out the better hunter? If this a pissing contest, I actually did drink a lot of coffee when I got to Bobby Singer's…"

The Winchester steeled his jaw and was about to bit back, but the other man continued.

"Look, I've never killed a demon, that's for sure. As far as other hunters' know, you and your brother have been the only ones to do it." Sylas Mordel picked at dead skin around a finger nail compulsively. "A lot of ghosts, a few satyrs and minor pagan gods." He puffed out a lungful of air and laughed quietly, eyes still fixed on his hands, "That dzimozona was one of the ugliest damn things I've ever seen in my life."

Dean's head threw back with a deep chuckle he hadn't expected, and even if he'd tried to prevent it he couldn't have. He vaguely remembered reading about Dzimozonas which also know as Mamunas. They were disguised as disgusting old women who stole children away from mother to raise as their own. They were water dwellers and vengeful monsters with few weaknesses that could eat a man whole…

"No _waaaay_. What swamp were you dumb enough to be slugding around in to run into one of them?"

Sylas responded absentmindedly. "Downtown Tampa. I swear she had at least 6 stolen babies in her nest. You'll never guess who she was disguised as."

Dean's curiosity peaked "Who? Some crazy cat lady in a shack down the street?"

"Bobby _assured_ me you're good at what we do too."

His grin grew before Dean could feel like he'd actually been insulted. "A rascal bound, red hat society, cookie welding grandma …get it? The fucking hat with the 'feather'? We had to hijack a grocery store egg supply just to put her under."

If the man next to him had been a friend, he would had enjoyed the story far too much for his own good, but he settled with a more childishly vulgar question "So…is the thing with her tits true?'

Sylas gagged sardonically. "Oh God…you think those red hat ladies are creepy, imagine one of those wearing its skin. Sags _even more_…when we caught up to her she was 'washing her laundry' …." They both surprised themselves as they shared a thick chuckle together.

The younger gasped for air tried to finish the plot, "We saw the thing right off the bat, but it made too much sense to put together." Sylas gestured the creature's stout drippy figure with his hands and then ardently dug around in his jacket pocket…

"It took me and Cale days to figure it out!"

The younger mans face fell abruptly and the sight choked out Dean's half-baked retort.

Sylas had fished out what he was looking for.

"…I've dealt with few other things from hell too, but they didn't die." He bit off a patch of skin off is fore finger. "Pull over a minute? Coffee is catching up to me."

Dean consented, thundering over the rumble strip just shy of the Nebraska border.

His companion didn't make any bones about it, after he trudged down the thorny steep hill Dean had been hoping for the whole time. After a moment he reemerged and planted himself on a weeded bed of marigold. It took a few flicks of what he had been excavating his pocket for, but the Zippo came to life, lighting the cigarette he gripped between thumb and forefinger.

"We gunna stop for food or what?" Sylas breathed out a cloud of smoke and took another drag. "We should go somewhere with steaks."


End file.
